‘Amber,’ was all I said. I knew the word spoke volumes. I’d practised the word, over and over to myself.

‘Hi, Arthur. Good to see you.’ She stood on tiptoe and pecked me on the cheek.

‘It’s been a while,’ she said, smoothing down her black skirt neatly with both hands as she sat down; coquettishly, I thought.

‘You look wonderful,’ I gushed.

Amber picked up the menu and glanced through the Christmas specials.

‘Wine? It’s your favourite,’ I said and leant across and poured her a glass. I wouldn’t accept her reticence at a full glass. After all, this was a celebration.

‘I’m trying to be sensible. Everyone goes mad just because it’s Christmas,’ she said as we chinked glasses. Piped music from ‘Carmen’ provided the backdrop to our unfolding drama.

‘Have you missed me?’ There, I’d asked it.

‘Of course, but I’ve been really busy moving into the flat.’

‘Will I be allowed to come and visit?’

A travelling guitar player, accompanied by a gaudily dressed lady handing out roses, stopped at our table. I hid my irritation and scrabbled around for loose change. Amber took the rose and laid it neatly alongside her bread knife.

‘Yes, of course you can. You don’t need to ask,’ she said.

Did I notice flippancy? It was hard to tell. The mellow mood brought on by the Chianti was morphing into irritation.

‘Do you want me to come round? Perhaps like before, a couple of nights a week at first?’ I asked.

In the kitchen behind us, a pile of plates smashed to the ground and Italian obscenities brought embarrassed smiles from the diners.

‘Arthur, I told you before, I’m not ready to settle down. I’m too young and not ready for a commitment.’

The ring was still in its box, the hard square package accused me of failure as it poked against my trouser pocket.

We finished our meal promptly after that. I hid my misery, played the game and kept up meaningless chit-chat.

I walked her back to the new flat but turned down the offer to have a look around.

‘No. Don’t worry. I can see you’re tired,’ I lied.

If she guessed this was a churlish refusal in light of her rejection, she didn’t show it. She leant across and kissed me on the cheek, no hint of passion. ‘Another time, Arthur.’

She smelt of rose petals, the sort my mother grew in the back garden. I didn’t hug Amber but instead swept away the large snowflakes that had settled on her face. I purposefully held back.

‘I’d love to come round for coffee. As friends.’ I winked, batting back the humiliation.